Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  A valet pulled the BMW around front and St. James opened the passenger door for Anna to slide in. He tipped the attendant, crawled into the driver’s seat, pulled the vehicle into drive, and rolled the car up Boulevard du Casino to merge onto Autoroute 5 toward Ottawa.

  At the bottom of the down ramp St. James glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted an older Mercedes approximately four car-lengths behind. Suddenly the Mercedes accelerated, rapidly closing the distance between the two vehicles. Seconds later it rammed the BMW with enough force to catapult St. James and Anna forward almost at once. The airbags didn’t inflate and the seatbelts didn’t grab. St. James winced when thrust into the steering wheel, his chest bearing the brunt of the impact. Anna screamed as her head slammed into the dash.

  The Mercedes continued its attack, ploughing the BMW sideways until it ricocheted off the guardrails.

  “What’s happening?” Anna cried.

  “Rammed us on purpose,” St. James yelled.

  The BMW fishtailed back and forth as it broke free from the Mercedes. Instinctively St. James jammed the accelerator to the floor, pulling the car straight as its speed increased.

  Anna sobbed, holding her head in both hands, her blond hair sprinkled with blood.

  St. James was tense, his focus alternating rapidly between the road ahead and the Mercedes behind. The Mercedes kept charging, closing the gap yet again. Darkness prevented him seeing the driver with any clarity.

  The second ramming was even harder than the first, causing Anna’s neck to whiplash more violently and the BMW’s rear bumper to break loose enough to drag on the pavement, sparks streaming behind it.

  Again St. James accelerated to widen the gap, again the Mercedes closed in. Gap widened. Gap narrowed. More sparks. St. James was quiet; he was tense and totally focused. Suddenly the BMW’s bumper let go completely, the Mercedes nearly losing control as it swerved to avoid the flying chrome.

  Racing across the Macdonald-Cartier Bridge into Ontario and onto Sussex, the vehicles fifty, maybe a hundred feet apart, whipping passed the National Art Gallery in tandem.

  “Why are they doing this?” Anna cried, blood streaming down her forehead.

  With one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his throbbing chest, St. James dredged up what little remained of his sense of humour. “It’s just a guess, mind you, but I think they’re trying to kill us. Hold on. This isn’t going to end well, Anna.”

  Both cars rounded the National Peacekeeping Monument at speeds much greater than the city limits, tires squealing as they wheeled onto Murray.

  The situation was now more perilous. There were many people crossing ByWard Market streets without a care in the world, not expecting a high-speed chase to be roaring their way.

  St. James ran a red light at Parent and Murray. The Mercedes slowed to avoid four pedestrians crossing Murray, allowing St. James precious seconds to widen the gap. Both vehicles shot right onto Dalhousie and again onto George.

  ByWard’s bright lights revealed a second man sitting in the Mercedes’s passenger seat.

  St. James wheeled onto Sussex through a red light at York, narrowly missing an elderly man crossing the street with the aid of a cane. Just past the American Embassy he swerved to avoid t-boning a red Jaguar emerging from St. Patrick.

  A third crash sent the BMW into a violent three-sixty spin. St. James rapidly spun the wheel in the opposite direction, hit the brakes hard, then jammed the accelerator to the floor, creating enough speed for the vehicle to right itself. Now doing 140 the BMW once again increased the distance between the two vehicles.

  Police sirens could be heard coming from the south.

  On a split-second impulse St. James eased the accelerator, gently tapped the brakes three times, and then pulled the steering wheel a hard right. A high risk move that could have easily flipped the car if not executed just right, yet necessary to avoid another ramming.

  Rounding the corner onto Cathcart on two wheels, the BMW slewed back and forth on wet pavement, St. James struggling to maintain control as he narrowly avoided a flatbed trailer.

  Anna sobbing uncontrollably, her blouse was now more red than white.

  As he regained control St. James spotted a single-story two-bay brick garage on the right, just behind the hospital, to the left of the garage, a laneway he guessed to be the hospital service entrance. Once again he yanked the steering wheel and raced into the service laneway coming to a screeching halt just behind the brick garage.

  They jumped from the car and ran to the side of the garage to peer out onto Cathcart.

  The police sirens were now much louder, maybe a block away.

  In two, maybe three seconds the Mercedes roared onto Cathcart. Fishtailing out of control on wet pavement, the vehicle skidded toward the low-level flatbed attached to a Freightliner tractor on the left side of Cathcart. Both loading ramps were down, resting on the pavement. The vehicle’s driver-side wheels caught the flatbed’s right ramp, propelling it up onto the flatbed floor and leaving only the passenger-side wheels running on the pavement below. Momentum drove the vehicle the length of the flatbed until it crashed into a steel header with enough force to flip it onto its roof and make it skid thirty feet before coming to a complete halt. Its two occupants hung limp upside down, held in place only by seatbelts.

  For a few moments St. James and Anna just stared at the smoking wreckage, stunned. Liquid dripped from the rear, sparkling in the wake of streetlights, like a calm lake under a full moon. But it wasn’t a lake. It was gasoline. A small fire broke out around the buckled engine hood, and two minutes later the entire front end was engulfed in flames. Seconds after that an explosion completely destroyed the vehicle, lighting up half of Cathcart Street.

  Chapter 23

  It was 2:00 when the firemen, police, and paramedics finally finished with the crash scene.

  Three police cars arrived seconds after the explosion, paramedics and firemen shortly thereafter. Two firemen sprayed the wreckage and surrounding properties, containing the fire until it burned itself out approximately fifteen minutes later. Smells of smoke and burnt rubber filled the air, and water spewing from a pumper truck flooded the west end of Cathcart.

  Looking very much the loser in a demolition derby, the Mercedes was unrecognizable, almost every surface dented, its roof pushed in touching the dash, paint burnt from most of its body. One wheel, blown clear, had rolled forty feet down the street; the remaining three were completely melted, rims still bolted to the charred vehicle.

  Onlookers came from houses along Cathcart, some in nightclothes, obviously awakened by the explosion, others from Sussex, most likely from a night at the pub.

  Two policemen cordoned off the area with yellow tape and identified evidence to be logged, marked, photographed, and then placed into sterilized containers for the lab to examine. Potential evidence for criminal charges, or lawsuits, or insurance claims, whatever followed.

  A paramedic gently guided Anna to a green-and-white fully equipped emergency unit where she sat in back on a gurney while he bandaged her head, administered a sedative, and monitored her blood pressure. A second paramedic asked to check St. James, but he refused.

  When the Mercedes had sufficiently cooled, firemen and police used the jaws-of-life to remove the two severely burnt bodies and carried them away in body bags.

  The detective-in-charge was a plainclothes officer named Mark Spencer, a man in his early forties, of light complexion with thick blond hair and a scar over his left eye. Muscular. Thorough. St. James thought him good at what he did.

  Spencer grilled St. James on the incident, taking detailed notes as St. James recounted every moment of the evening as best he could.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do this?” Spencer asked, scratching his head with a pen.

  “That would be a very long list,” St. James replied nonchalantly, brushing dirt from his sports jacket.

  Spencer didn’t care for the flippant answer to his
serious question. St. James caught the irritated look and quickly explained. It turned out Spencer had heard of him from police chief Carl Howowitz, whom St. James had met at Pierre’s barbecue the previous summer.

  Spencer relaxed as he listened to St. James’s explanation. “I see why it would be a very long list,” he said with a smile. “Man in your line of work would have more than his share of enemies.”

  St. James nodded. “Unfortunately. Goes with the territory.”

  “Once I type up your statement,” Spencer said, “I’ll need you to come by the station to verify and sign it. Meantime, if you can think of anything else, here’s my card.”

  Spencer paused and looked toward the paramedic truck where Anna was being treated.

  “A miracle no innocent people were killed tonight,” he mused and turned to St. James.

  “You should get your lady friend home soon. She’ll be traumatized, for sure. I’ll have someone drive you. We’ll flatbed your car to the compound. Our technical people will want to look it over for evidence.”

  St. James nodded. “That’ll be fine, detective. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll be speaking.”

  They shook hands.

  The pain from St. James’s ribs was excruciating. Holding his side tightly, he walked gingerly toward the paramedic truck where he found Anna hooked up to a blood pressure machine, the paramedics checking one last time. 139/82 came up on the screen as St. James approached the rear of the vehicle.

  “She’s out of danger. Blood pressure was out of sight first reading. She can go now,” the paramedic said. “I gave her a sedative. She’ll sleep for a good twelve to fourteen hours, maybe longer. Her head will be badly bruised tomorrow. Here’s the name of the sedative.”

  He handed over a piece of paper, which St. James shoved into his pocket without looking.

  “Her doctor will want to know what it was. She should be seen tomorrow to get a prescription, most likely a lighter one, not as strong as the one we just administered. The trauma will have dwindled some by tomorrow, but she’ll have trouble sleeping for a few days. Give her Tylenol Extra Strength for the whiplash. You should have your chest X-rayed too: I suspect you have a cracked rib.”

  St. James nodded and thanked him.

  Anna mumbled something, sounding more drunk than sedated.

  A police car pulled alongside, and St. James helped Anna into the backseat. 700 Sussex was just minutes away.

  When they arrived at the condo building St. James asked the night concierge to fetch a wheelchair, and it wasn’t long before he returned wheeling a collapsible one. He helped St. James transfer Anna to the chair from the car.

  St. James thanked both the policeman and the concierge, then wheeled Anna onto the elevator, up to the fifth floor, and into the condo where he slipped off her clothes and slid her into bed as gently as he could. She mumbled several words. Only his name was audible.

  It was 2:45 a.m.

  With Anna resting comfortably St. James went into the kitchen, opened the liquor cabinet, and poured a double Macallan Sienna single malt. It was a special bottle, not for sharing, and only dipped into after unsuccessful attempts were made on his life. It was a ritual, a celebration, his way of thanking God for survival. And he did thank God he had had the same bottle for five years.

  St. James would never admit it, but attempts did rattle him — a lot. For several minutes he shook, sitting in the living room partially lit by streetlights and passing automobile headlights streaming in from Sussex.

  Would be a very long list, he had said to Spencer. Could have been anyone.

  “Who?” he wondered aloud. “Nells? Dunning? Or maybe Stern? What about the Stevens case? Could it be someone from that? Don’t think so. Haven’t pissed anyone off, yet. CISI? No, just beginning. Maybe someone further in the past. Someone harbouring a grudge. God knows I gave a lot of people good reason.”

  St. James smiled inwardly when he realized he was talking out loud.

  Now there were things to do. Things he didn’t have to do yesterday. For one thing he had to call the insurance company to report the accident. No accident, but still, it had to be reported. He had the police report number; that would be the first thing they’d ask for. And, he had to get the car appraised for the cost to restore it to pristine condition.

  His side continued to throb. He went into the bathroom, retrieved a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol from the medicine cabinet, and popped three, swallowing them with the aid of a drop of Scotch.

  He finished the double hit of expensive Scotch and considered a second. But his ritual was only one double per close call. That’s how he knew how many close calls there had been. Seven hundred fifty millilitres translated into just under twenty-six ounces on the old scale, still his way of thinking. An estimated four ounces left after tonight meant twenty-two consumed. Assuming a double was approximately three ounces that roughly translated into seven attempts on his life, maybe eight, not sure, he didn’t use a jigger. He reckoned that was about right. On that thought, he went to bed.

  Chapter 24

  Saturday morning St. James woke at noon. It hit him as soon as his eye met the large red numbers on the bedside clock. Pierre. He had arranged a 9:30 tee-off for them the previous day. He was now two and a half hours late. DuPont would have been on time; he was always on time.

  St. James tried to get out of bed without disturbing Anna, but the chest pain caused him to flop backwards on the pillow. Anna didn’t stir. He persisted, succeeding only on the third try. He scuffed into the living room holding his side, grabbed the phone, and punched in Pierre’s cell.

  “I heard you’re having barbecue thugs for breakfast,” he said with a chuckle. “Pardonnez-moi if I skip the invitation.”

  “You know?” St. James blurted.

  “Superintendent phoned early this morning and told me what happened.”

  “So you weren’t waiting for me at the golf club?”

  DuPont heard the stress in St. James’s voice.

  “No. Mon ami, don’t worry,” he said quickly. “When I heard I knew you wouldn’t be there. But I’m still pissed.”

  St. James was incredulous with Pierre’s response. “Why?”

  “Because now I have to help my wife garden all day instead of enjoying a game of golf with you,” DuPont said, again with a chuckle. “You owe me two golf games now.”

  St. James sighed.

  “Okay, Pierre. Thanks.”

  With that St. James disconnected.

  He winced with pain once again.

  He punched in his insurance broker’s number. They weren’t open on Saturdays, but he figured he’d leave a message anyway; they’d have it first thing Monday morning, one less thing for him to worry about.

  Favouring his side meant basic hygiene took longer than usual, and it was 1:30 by the time he managed to shower, shave, and poach an egg.

  He checked on Anna. She was still sleeping. Now he was conflicted. Paramedics wanted her to see a doctor today, but St. James had no idea who her doctor was. At the same time she needed to sleep as long as possible, essential for the healing process. In the end he concluded the doctor was more important. She could sleep later.

  Doctors didn’t keep weekend hours, but some medical clinics did. St. James found one online in the Bank Street area. He tapped the clinic number and spoke with a lady named Peggy who heard about the crash driving to work.

  St. James described Anna’s state and Peggy strongly urged him to bring her to the clinic as soon as possible. “She could have a concussion, which can be quite serious.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can,” St. James said and disconnected.

  Throbbing ribs made it difficult to breathe, but St. James thought he could stand it long enough to have Anna looked after. He was about to take three more extra-strength Tylenol when the phone rang.

  Smythe.

  “Hey man, I just heard the news. You okay? How’s Anna?”

  “We’re okay. Anna’s still sleep
ing. She’s quite traumatized and has a nasty gash and bruise on her forehead. Paramedics gave her a sedative around two this morning. Been sleeping ever since.”

  “What about you?”

  “Ribs hurt like hell, other than that I’m fine.”

  “Good. Man, you had me worried.”

  “Had myself worried. Have to go by the police station to sign a statement and get Anna to a clinic when she wakes up. Not a good day.”

  “Do they know who the two roasted guys were?”

  “Too badly burnt, no identification. The detective said DNA and dental records would be necessary in this case.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Smythe said matter-of-factly. “Hired guns. Probably nobodies from the United States. We want the guys who hired them.”

  “Agreed. But that’s for another day.”

  They disconnected.

  St. James heard Anna stir.

  “Wait for my help,” he shouted, “you’ll be too wobbly on your own.”

  He rushed down the hall as quickly as he could and found Anna sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Tell me it was all just a bad dream, St. James,” she mumbled, her words barely audible.

  St. James’s voice was soft as he took her hand. “Afraid not, darling.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her head in his chest, whimpering. He held her for a long time without speaking.

  Finally he said softly, “I’ve made arrangements to have you seen at a clinic this afternoon, so we have to get you dressed and arrange a taxi. Are you able to shower on your own?”

  “Think so.”

  “I’ll follow you to the bathroom just in case.”

  St. James helped her stand. She grabbed the doorjamb to steady herself and slowly moved toward the bathroom. St. James thought her stable enough as he eyed her walk.

  “I’ll get clean clothes from your suitcase. You stand in the shower for a while. Hot water will loosen the muscles, help you relax. Don’t let the hot spray hit the wound. Could sting, maybe start the bleeding again.”